Ivory Nation, Andy Maslen [e manga reader .txt] 📗

expression of disbelief. ‘What, you’re telling me assassinating British princesses was a hobby?’

‘No, Sir. He was a marksman in the IDF. They all do national service in—’

‘Yes, yes, I know. Bloody warmongers.’

‘Well, that’s how he came to be such a good shot.’

‘You haven’t told me why, Anthony.’

‘Why, Sir?’

‘Yes! Why did he do it?’

‘I’m afraid we don’t know. We’ve asked the Israelis for his home computer, any laptops, devices at his home, but we’re still waiting.’

‘Yes, and I’m sure you’ll be waiting a lot longer. Thank you, Anthony, for coming today. Leave this with me. I think we need to rattle the can a little.’

The Downing Street press officer approached the microphone and waited for silence. The breeze flapped at a page of A4 in her hand but, otherwise, everything about her was poised, immobile, immaculate, from her tied-back blonde hair to the pencil skirt of her black suit.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the prime minister.’

Tammerlane smiled at the assembled journalists. Then he frowned and gripped the lectern. He waited for the harsh whine of the cameras’ digital shutters to quieten before he spoke.

‘I have just come from a meeting with the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service. He brought me the most disturbing intelligence imaginable. Princess Alexandra was assassinated…’ He paused and shook his head, frowning deeper. ‘No, let’s be blunt here, murdered, by an agent of the apartheid state of Israel. A former military sniper acting covertly in the guise of a teacher.’

He waited for the brief susurrus of journalistic whispers to die down before resuming.

‘Britain is a sovereign nation. Whatever your views of the monarchy, and mine are no secret, it is an act of state-sponsored terrorism to deploy an assassin on foreign soil and murder one of its citizens.’

He found a TV camera and stared directly into its lens, pointing a finger as he spoke.

‘As of now, Britain is breaking off diplomatic ties with the terrorist state of Israel. We are expelling diplomats and closing its embassy. All Israeli citizens are given notice: you have one month to leave this island.

My home secretary and her colleagues at Defence, International Trade and Overseas Development will be announcing further measures later. Thank you. That is all.’

‘What the fuck just happened?’ Eli said to Gabriel as she stabbed the remote’s off button.

‘He’s mad.’

‘That’s me done. You know that, right?’

‘I know. I can’t think.’

‘Well I can! I’m going upstairs to pack. This country just put out a Jews Out! sign and I for one am not going to wait around until they start knocking on doors at three in the fucking morning!’

‘Eli, wait!’

She whirled round.

‘No! You wait. I’m leaving.’

‘He’s posturing. There’ll be legal challenges. It’s unenforceable. Parliament will never allow it.’

Breathing heavily, chest heaving, Eli took her foot off the first step. She came and stood right in front of Gabriel.

‘He’s the prime minister. With a huge majority. He’s also a hard-left dictator-in-waiting with a hard-on for Israel.’

‘What about the mission?’

‘I’ll do that. It’s in Africa anyway, so I assume Tammerlane’s tentacles don’t stretch that far. But that’s it.’ A tear crept down her cheek. ‘Gabriel, you know what’s coming, right?’

Unwilling to believe it, yet unable to process the press conference and deal with the grief of the woman he loved at the same time, Gabriel defaulted to operational mode.

‘Let’s both pack. We’ll head down to Rothford and stay there till we deploy. If it makes you feel any better, while Tammerlane’s in charge I have no desire to sit around and watch him dismantle everything I love about this country.’

‘You mean it?’

‘Yes, I mean it.’ He held her upper arms and looked deep into those grey-green eyes. ‘You are what matters to me. If it’s all going to get shitty here then we decamp somewhere until it’s over. People like Tammerlane don’t last for ever.’

‘No. But they last long enough.’

Gabriel cut the Camaro’s engine at the gate to MOD Rothford, the army base in the Essex countryside that housed, alongside its official residents, the small team that comprised the leadership and support staff for The Department.

‘Morning, Sir. Mr Wolfe, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right, Corporal. Andy, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Sir. Miss Schochat with you?’ the uniformed soldier asked, bending to peer in through the open window. ‘Morning, miss.’

‘Morning, Corporal,’ she said, flashing him a grin that Gabriel had rarely seen since Tammerlane had swept into power. ‘How are you?’

‘Very good, miss, thank you.’

‘We’re here to see Colonel Webster,’ Gabriel said.

‘He’s expecting you, Sir. Said you’d find him on the range.’

‘The range?’

‘Yes, Sir. Said it was about time the old warhorse got his eye in again.’

Occupying a tree-screened acre or so on the north-eastern edge of the base, the rifle range was usually the preserve of uniformed recruits or squads undergoing specialist weapons training. Today, alongside the men and women in their twenties, in combat gear, Don Webster stood in a bay, an instructor by his side.

The air reeked of the sharp tang of burnt propellant and hot brass. Ejected cartridge cases flew in all directions, their spinning sides flashing in the smoke-filtered sun.

Two dozen or so SA 80 assault rifles being fired on full auto made talking at conversational volume impossible.

‘Don knows something,’ Eli shouted to Gabriel as they walked up to the rear of the line of shooters.

They stood a few yards behind Don. Unlike the regular soldiers along the line, Don was firing single shots. Gabriel looked down the range. His boss was shooting at a target at the five-hundred-yard mark. A female silhouette.

After squeezing off a shot, Don turned, smiled and handed the SA 80 to the instructor.

‘Morning, boss,’ Gabriel yelled, when they were within two feet of each other.

‘Morning, Old Sport, Eli. Let’s go to my office,’ he added, pointing at the administration block for good measure.

Inside and with mugs of freshly brewed coffee and a plate of biscuits sitting in front of them, Gabriel waited for his boss to speak. Eli beat him to it.

‘Did you get bored of paperwork, boss?’

Don grinned.

‘To tell you